


Secret Agent Man

by ifreet



Category: Supernatural, due South
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:50:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifreet/pseuds/ifreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Supernatural characters fused into a due South-like world.</p><p><i>Sam cut himself off, pressed his lips into an annoyed line. It was the first time they'd been in the same room together in years, and they were already at it. Dean was almost impressed. "Look, it's not you I'm worried about; it's Castiel, he's..." Sam's mouth worked silently for a moment. "... Canadian," he finished, actually looking more annoyed.</i></p><p>Dean had heard that the unofficial partner was something of an oddball and a stickler about the weirdest things, but there must be more to him if he managed to get under Sam's skin that badly. He'd thought that particular pissy look was reserved for family.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Agent Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dessert_first](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dessert_first), [sisterofdream](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sisterofdream).



> Given which fandom I've met most of my flist through, I mostly expect readers to recognize the elements of "Burning down the House" and "Mountie on the Bounty" from due South, but I am also relying heavily upon (and severely mangling for Reasons of Plot/Worldbuilding) "Are You There God? It's Me, Dean Winchester." Also, I have a Great Deal of Backstory explaining why this Cas is the latter, more human (...ish) version, rather than the badass angel of AYTGIMDW, but it does not actually fit in the story. Boo. Hopefully, this will bother no one but me.

_ THEN _

"Yeah, I get it, it's ridiculous. No one could possibly mistake me for you," Dean snapped. He bit back on the _not smart enough, not schooled enough, not tall enough_ and spit out the reason none of that mattered. "Orders."

"That's not what I --" Sam cut himself off, pressed his lips into an annoyed line. It was the first time they'd been in the same room together in years, and they were already at it. Dean was almost impressed. "Look, it's not you I'm worried about; it's Castiel, he's..." Sam's mouth worked silently for a moment. "... Canadian," he finished, actually looking more annoyed.

Dean had heard that the unofficial partner was something of an oddball and a stickler about the weirdest things, but there must be more to him if he managed to get under Sam's skin that badly. He'd thought that particular pissy look was reserved for family.

"Canadian, eh?"

Sam shoved at his shoulder, half affectionately. "Dork. Look, it's complicated, and they didn't give me much time to explain. Just -- he means well, but he's not like us. He doesn't think like..." that annoyed expression flitted across his face again "... Chicagoans. He tends towards absolutes, and he's beyond stubborn. He's crap at lying, so don't rely on him to back your stories up. Even for your cover. And--" There was a knock on the glass. Their five minutes were over.

Sam looked frustrated and worried, and that was no way to start an undercover assignment. Particularly a long-term one. "I got it; don't worry about it. Worry about yourself." Dean struggled for a moment, then leaned in to wrap Sam in a one-armed embrace regardless of who might be watching on the other side of the window.

"Dean, Dad was right," Sam whispered into his ear under the cover of the hug, but before Dean could ask the obvious question -- about what -- Sam straightened and held Dean at arms' length. "Be careful," he said, and after the slightest pause, "I love you."

God, he was so embarrassing, Dean had nearly forgotten how much. "I know. I love you, too, you giant girl."

***

"Told you to wait for backup, but would you listen to me? No, of freaking course not." Dean kept up a steady stream of recriminations as he fired back -- and up -- at the heavily armed bad guys. He was a multitasker. "You haven't listened to me in weeks."

"We should jump."

"Are you freaking kidding me?"

"No."

"You see how high this building is, don't you?"

"Yes. The water will break our fall."

"I can hold them off until our backup arrives," he said, firing again.

"Jumping is the best option."

Dean shot him a glare then turned his attention back to the goon squad. "Great. Stay and get shot, or jump, break our legs, and _then_ get shot if the fall doesn't kill us."

"The fall will not kill us. Now," Cas ordered and took off towards the ledge. Dean, cursing, followed.

The impact didn't kill him, and the water was deep enough that he didn't smash to the bottom. But something did snap when he hit, a sudden sharp pain that left him gasping for air and sucking in water instead. The pain was disorienting. He struck out for the surface but couldn't find it. Castiel's hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up so his head broke free of the water and dragged over to cling to the pier as he coughed. It hurt, too much to be grateful for the air he was gasping in.

"Winchester." Cas had located a ladder.

Dean wanted to say 'I can't, leave me alone' but he thought of their pursuers and managed to move. He hauled himself up the ladder. Cas, apparently impatient with his progress, grabbed him again to heave him up the last rungs. The move was not appreciated by his rib. He cried out, which hurt even more, and collapsed on the dock.

"You're injured," the Mountie noted. He sounded surprised.

"Told you we were too high," Dean gritted out, as he started to struggle to his feet. Cas stopped him with a hand -- Dean started to tell him they didn't have time for this, they needed to move now and seek medical assistance later, when he noticed how very warm that hand was. Increasingly, penetratingly warm. Dean gasped again, but this time, he didn't hurt. Anywhere, not his rib, not his earlier bruises or the slightly aching muscles from training with Levon earlier in the week. He felt whole.

The hand dropped away. Dean stared at Castiel as though he'd never seen him before.

"What are you?"

"An angel of the Lord," Cas replied.

Dean had to punch him.

***

 _ THEN _

"You talked to Singer, right?" Castiel nodded, and Dean figured the matter was settled. "Glad we're on the same page. Good to have you back, buddy."

Castiel's frown became, if anything, more formidable and his strange, precise diction more pronounced. "You can't be pleased to have me 'back.' We have not previously met." He extended his hand, like someone had taught him the one correct way to conduct an introduction and he was determined not to deviate. "I am known as Constable Castiel of Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I first came to Chicago in search of my father. For reasons that I will not explore at this juncture, I remain attached as liaison with the Canadian Consulate. In that time, I have formed what you have termed a 'duet' with the person that I am currently looking for -- Samuel Winchester, detective first grade, Chicago Police Department."

Dean flashed him his badge, pointing to the name. Jeez, Sam had tried to warn him, but this was ridiculous. "Sam Winchester, detective first grade, Chicago Police Department. Everyone here knows who I am, Castiel, how about you?"

The phone rang. "Winchester," he answered with a wink to Castiel. The odd voice at the other end asked for Castiel -- he really must spend all his time at the precinct if he was receiving calls here. "'s for you."

Moments later, they were racing across town to Sam and Jess's place. They arrived before the fire department and had Jessica out before the fire had spread too far. The firemen were making short work of the flames -- Castiel had quickly identified the accelerant, ignition, and most likely areas for the arsonist to target.

"Thank you, De--" Dean coughed pointedly, and she corrected herself quickly. "Sam."

Castiel's eyebrows drew in. "Why are you calling him that?"

"Castiel." She smiled warmly at him, clearly relieved to see a friendly (ok, familiar) face. Sam must have brought him home sometimes, and while Jess had likely known _of_ Dean for sometime, they'd only just met. Then she seemed to register the question, looking confused and a little hurt, and Dean could have kicked Castiel for playing with her. "Oh, you know. No reason we can't still be friends." Castiel's head tipped sideways, in what Jess took to be an inquisitive way. "After the break-up."

"The break-up," he repeated.

"Yes, well." Her eyes went sad and worried. "That's why he moved out, of course."

Castiel turned to face Dean. " _He_ moved out."

Jessica rolled her eyes at the repetition, and Dean loved her for it. "Obviously, I know," she whispered. But even whispers carried, and there were a number of firemen and gawkers in the area, so Dean interrupted.

"Let's go, Cas!" he said, turning back to Sam's incredibly sensible (boring) car.

"Cas?" he repeated incredulously, but followed.

***

"Did you know Castiel is a Canadian?" Dean demanded, bursting into Bobby's office.

"Well, the hat was rather suggestive," Bobby drawled, in his 'I'm choosing amused over pissed' voice.

Dean blinked, wondering if that was some sort of halo joke. Then his ears caught up with his mouth. "No, not a Canadian. He's a Canadian. Dammit!" Dean exploded. The word wouldn't come out right, twisting between his mind and his mouth.

"Oh, he's _Canadian_. Well, I've always said what you boys get up to on your own time is your own business." He glanced pointedly at the clock. "But since you're currently on my time, why don't you cool your jets and get some work done?"

Dean turned to stomp back out. "Hey, kid," Bobby called. Dean glanced back. "Nice job today."

Dean grimaced. Their back-up had arrived, and the entire gang of smugglers and -- surprise! -- gun runners had been taken into custody. He'd gladly give up the bust to have a do-over for the day, so that he'd never have to learn how little Castiel trusted him.

Then Dean realized that someone had tried to tell him. Sam had known.

Speak of the - angel, Castiel was talking with Jo over by his desk. If Jo saw him like this, she'd know something was wrong in a hot second, and if there was one thing Jo was not, it was subtle in her concern. Meaning the station rumor mill would take notice and start churning out stories about him and his partner, which would draw attention to them and defeat the whole point of him pretending to be Sam in the first place.

Dean ducked out of the bullpen. He needed a moment to get his game face on. The men's room was thankfully empty. He splashed some water on his face, then leaned on the sink and looked his reflection dead in the eye. Nothing had changed. He still had to work with Castiel to maintain the pretense that his brother was here in Chicago. He could do it. The AC kicked on hard, hard enough to see his breath. Typical. This place was either crazy-hot or freaking-freezing -- and that was perfect, a normal thing to bitch about to Castiel before shooing Jo away.

"Hey, Winchester." Dean's heart missed a beat even as he wheeled around, because he couldn't be hearing that voice.

"Volpe?" He looked the same -- same brown eyes, same young face that fooled people into underestimating him. Same clothes he'd died in.

"In the flesh." His smile started bright then turned ugly. "Or not, actually. But you knew that; after all, I'm dead because of you."

The words hit like a sucker punch. "I -- I'm sorry. I should have known it was a set-up, should have figured it out sooner."

"But you didn't." Volpe was suddenly much closer, right in Dean's face. "And now I'm _dead_." His hands wrapped around his throat and started squeezing. Dean tried to grab them, but for all they were solid enough to cut off his air, he couldn't seem to touch them. He tried to push Volpe away, but his hands brushed through him, the full force of his shove just enough to ripple the neck of Volpe's jacket revealing a small tattoo. Dean kept trying, scrabbling at his own neck as his vision went spotty.

Something ripped him away from Volpe's grasp, and he fell to the floor gasping. Castiel murmured something under his breath, and Volpe jumped like an old filmstrip once, twice, and vanished. "We must go," Castiel said. Dean wasn't sure he could stand yet, but he pushed himself up on one knee. Then Cas was bending over him, touching his fingers to Dean's forehead -- and they were in the consulate.

***

 _ THEN _

Dean needed to get him back to the station. Bobby either hadn't talked to Castiel about the assignment, or he hadn't impressed upon him the importance of it. Either way, he needed to get the Mountie off the streets, before Sam was blown.

"You recognized the arsonist's signature."

"Yes."

Dean took his eyes off the road to roll them. Not big on elaboration, this guy. "And?"

"It was the work of the same person who burned down my apartment complex earlier, and both were similar to a case I worked with Sam Winchester."

"Whoa, what?" He glanced over at the man staring serenely through the windshield. "Are you all right?"

"Clearly." Castiel shot him a distinctly unimpressed look. "I was not there at the time."

Dean hauled on the wheel, tires complaining against the pavement as he made an illegal u-turn. If this guy was specifically targeting Castiel and Sam, the next target would likely be either the precinct or the consulate -- and frankly, the consulate was a softer target. He radioed dispatch just to be safe, and moments later, he was pulling up in front of the new Canadian consulate and running up the steps.

"Welcome to Canada," Constable Turnbull greeted around the nail he was holding in his teeth. He had a hammer in one hand and a portrait of the queen in the other, and seemed more concerned with finding the right spot to hang the painting than with watching the door.

"Hey, Turnbull," Dean replied, blowing past him. "Thatcher in?"

He let himself into her office -- all white walls and ornate gold furniture. Inspector Anna Thatcher was seated behind a plain wooden desk (the only thing in the place that seemed to suit her personality, solid and practical), talking with an older gentleman in a suit. The man frowned at the interruption and started to stand, but Thatcher waved him down. "Detective Winchester. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Someone is targeting locations important to me and to Castiel for arson."

"And you think the consulate might be a target." She seemed amused at the thought. From out in the hallway came a crash and a muffled "Oh, dear!"

"Seems likely," he replied. The guy in the suit snorted, and Dean frowned at him.

"I know Constable Turnbull may not seem very... effectual, but I assure you, no one enters the consulate without his knowledge. We are quite safe."

"Maybe we should take a look --"

"That will not be necessary," she stated firmly. He looked to Castiel to help argue the point, but he was staring at the Inspector with an utterly confused frown on his face. "If it reassures you, I will have Constable Turnbull double-check the grounds."

He guessed that would have to do. "Fine. You coming, Cas?"

Thatcher smiled, small and quickly suppressed. "Go on," she said, and he fell in behind Dean.

***

"That was--" he coughed, which hurt worse than talking, and tried again. "That was a ghost."

"Yes." Castiel pushed him into a chair and walked around to rummage through his desk drawers. Diefenbaker woke up, walked over to Dean, and sympathetically pushed his head into Dean's lap to be scratched. Castiel set an assortment of items on the desk top, a jumble of cords, necklaces and bracelets made of a variety of materials, sorted through them briefly before tossing one -- a small bag on a leather cord -- to Dean. "Wear this." He then opened the closet and pulled a lock box from the shelf.

"Ghosts are real, too."

Castiel glanced up from the box. "Obviously."

Dean pulled a face at him. _Obviously._ He pulled the necklace over his head, then rubbed at his neck; there'd probably be bruises. "So, Volpe came back for revenge."

"That seems unlikely. He would have returned much sooner if this were a natural haunting. Someone must have raised him. Being ripped him from his rest would have brought him back angry."

And then the first thing he'd done was come after Dean.

"Dean. This is not your fault."

"Not supposed to call me that," he reminded absently, mind elsewhere. In the weeks following Volpe's murder, Castiel had told him that his death wasn't his fault several times. Dean had almost started to believe him. Almost. "And it is. So how do I fix it?"

"You don't." He pulled a gun out of the lock box and slid it into his holster. "I need to report to my superior."

Dean expected Castiel to zap away somewhere; instead, he strode out into the hall to knock on the door to Thatcher's office. Dief hopped to his feet and padded after. "Is this really the time to be playing Canadian?" Dean asked incredulously, but Thatcher was already inviting Castiel in.

"Anna, someone has raised the Witnesses."

She raised an eyebrow at him then looked past him at Dean. "Hello, Detective Winchester."

Castiel's slouch evoked a rather put upon teenager. "I told him."

"So I gathered." She studied Castiel for a moment and frowned. "And performed a miracle. That must have been a strain for you."

"I'm _fine_."

Dief rumbled, and Castiel glanced down at him with a slightly surprised expression.

Thatcher nodded. "A necessary miracle, then. The Witnesses?"

"Yes. One attacked Dean Winchester."

"It could simply be a ghost. His line of work attracts them. Did you see the mark?"

Castiel bristled. "I think I still know the difference between a natural and unnatural haunting."

"A mark? Like a tattoo?" Three pairs of eyes swung to Dean. He gestured at his neck. "Volpe had one here that I didn't remember from before... well, from before."

Thatcher smiled at him. "Exactly like."

"No," Castiel said. Thatcher turned towards him, brows raised. Diefenbaker laid down and put his paws over his eyes. "He's safe here."

"He saw the mark, which means he can lay the spirits."

"Ok, good," Dean said, gratefully jumping at the chance of something to _do_. "What do I have to do?"

"Anna. One already tried to kill him."

"Then he'll have to work fast." She picked up one of the dozens of blank forms on her desk and held it out. Castiel folded his arms and scowled at the wall.

Dean stepped forward and took the paper -- on second glance, it looked like a recipe, a list of ingredients followed by a set of instructions. His eyes widened. Unusual ingredients -- wormwood? -- and illegal ones, including opium. "Could take me awhile to get all this together," he said slowly, thinking through his connections, who wouldn't ask, what would be expected in return.

"Castiel will gather what you need."

Castiel scowled more ferociously and vanished. Neatly, accompanied by the faint sound of wings, not in fits and starts like -- anyway. Thatcher turned her attention back to her stacks of paperwork. "Don't leave the building unattended. Dismissed."

Dief nudged him, and after a moment, Dean followed him back out into the hallway -- dim in comparison after all the white and gold. "So, I guess she's..."

Dief woofed.

"I don't suppose you're...?"

Dief barked and gave a great shake, like he was drying off.

"Just checking." He wandered back into Castiel's office, reading through the instructions. They were weird but not hard.

"Here." Castiel reappeared in front of him, and Dean about jumped out of his skin. He held out a crate full of -- things.

Dean took the crate. "So I--"

"Mix these during the first incantation. Burn those while saying the second. Dean, you do not have to do this. I can find someone --"

Dean laughed, though there was little humor in it. "I get it, alright? I'm last the person you'd have chosen for the job. Thanks for the vote of confidence."

The set of Castiel's head shifted towards puzzled. "My intent was not to offend you."

"Then let's get on with it."

Castiel's fingers pressed against his forehead.

***

 _ THEN _

The van following them forced Dean to rethink his plans to return to the station. Cas surmised that Sam's car had been tampered with and made the oh-so-logical decision to crawl around on the outside of the vehicle while Dean continued driving to try to look for the trigger.

Dean offered his explanations for the day's miscommunications while Castiel searched. Apologies were easier when you didn't have to face the other person. Castiel slid back into the car, and Dean glanced over, but couldn't tell how much, if any, he'd heard. "Anything?"

"No."

Just then the van accelerated, passed them, and just as abruptly stopped. Like any good Chicago driver, Dean laid on the horn. And flames licked out from around the edges of the hood.

"We need to bail."

"Too great a chance of bystanders getting hurt. Detective Sam Winchester would never allow that."

Dean glared at him.

***

When Dean thought about it, the roof made sense. The fire wouldn't set off the alarm, and they avoided any awkward questions about controlled substances. But while Dean thought about it, Castiel drew a knife across his palm and then knelt to draw lines of blood around him. "Cas!"

"Once you've begun the spell, do not stop. For any reason." Castiel glanced up; at Dean's horrified face, he held up his hand. The cut was already closing. "It will be dangerous, but the circle will help protect you. Don't leave it."

Dean shifted his attention to the words. "Right. Got it." He set the crate down, pulled out a large metallic bowl (bronze, according to the instructions).

"Dean." He glanced up, 'don't call me that _here_ ' on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back at the odd expression Castiel was directing at him. "You are not the last person I would have chosen."

Apparently that was angel for apology, and Dean did feel a bit lighter for hearing it -- before Volpe flickered into existence at the edge of the circle. Castiel unholstered his weapon. "Begin," he ordered.

Dean began. And despite everything Volpe and the others (too many others, every one someone he'd failed to protect) threw at them, he saw it through.

***

 _ THEN _

Sam's horrible car was consigned to the deep, and even as Dean swam for safety he figured Sam would never believe it was an accident rather than a deliberate statement about his taste in automobiles. He joined Castiel on the shipyard docks, wet all through and smelling of Lake Michigan.

He heard the sound of a safety sliding off, stiffened and turned.

"Nothing you've done is unforgivable." Cas's voice was calm and reasonable.

"No?"

He registered the gun cocking and instinctively stepped between his partner and the danger. The force of the bullet knocked him backward. By the time he sat up, Castiel already had their arsonist well in hand. The Mountie moved fast. "Nice work," he coughed.

Castiel turned towards him, an expression of -- was it fury? -- replaced with a more subtle relief. "Sam?"

He grinned. "You called me Sam."

"I-- yes. I hope you will explain why."

***

 _Now_

Dean parked the Impala at the curb and looked at the building for a moment before shutting off the engine and getting out. Nothing had changed, except what he knew about some of the occupants.

"Hey, Turnbull," Dean greeted as he climbed the steps to the consulate. Despite knowing that whoever stood statue-duty couldn't answer, he'd always had trouble ignoring them. His feet abruptly left the ground, his arms pinned to his sides, as he was grabbed in a crushing embrace that would do a boa constrictor proud. "Detective Winchester! It is very good to see you!" Turnbull enthused.

"Turnbull," he choked out. "Down?"

Turnbull set him back on his feet, glanced around in the most attention-grabbing 'covert' move of all-time. "Cupid, actually. I'm 'undercover' as well," he added, making the little air quotes. "It is so good to know that you know!"

Seriously? That Cupid? Dean squinted up at him and decided to ask Cas instead. "Cas told you I know?"

"Oh, no. But I can see that you do, and that is very good. A good start indeed." Turnbull nodded happily to himself, then stepped back against the wall and went all stoically blank-faced. It was a little creepy to watch. Dean went inside.

Since no one was manning the front desk, Dean wandered back to Castiel's tiny office.

"Of course you saw this coming. You are a prophet." Castiel sounded vaguely exasperated -- not that most people would notice.

Someone mumbled an answer, and Dean paused at the door, curious.

"You certainly did not 'tell me so.'"

Diefenbaker barked at him. Dean's eyebrows leapt for his hairline.

"You wrote it? What do you-- oh." There was a pause. "You do know human nostrils are not that discerning of nuance. Particularly not after that Pomeranian has been by. Next time, you should tell me directly."

Dean stepped into the office, wishing he hadn't overheard that.

Dief woofed and wagged his tail, not bothering to stand. Dean supposed the Prophet Dief had foreseen the tragic lack of pastries.

"Dean," Cas greeted with a pleased expression that wasn't quite a smile.

He jerked a thumb towards the front. "Is he actually Cupid?"

Cas grimaced. "A cupid, yes. I assume I should apologize for the hugging."

"Yeah, can't say I'm a big fan of it."

"No one is," Cas replied almost mournfully.

Dean perched on the edge of the desk. "You seemed upset yesterday." Cas had taken off the moment the spirits dispersed, leaving Dean alone with the mess on the roof. "Was it something I said?"

"No." Dean rolled his eyes, because Cas had yet to meet the idiomatic expression that he wouldn't try to take literally. He started to rephrase, but Castiel frowned and expanded upon his answer without prompting. "You did well; your actions undoubtedly saved lives."

"But you didn't want me to try."

Cas shook his head, his expression turning frustrated. "I don't understand why I did not. I knew you were capable and that seeking out someone else would take time."

 _He's safe here,_ he'd told Anna. Dean thought maybe he knew why Turnbull-Cupid was so excited to see him. He glanced at Dief, who had been watching the byplay. Dief huffed a sigh and pointedly gave them his back.

Well, hell. He'd made a bigger fool of himself based on less. Dean leaned forward, put his hands on the arms of Cas's chair, and kissed him. Cas sucked in a surprised breath but didn't pull away. Then he started kissing Dean back.

A moment after that, Cas was definitely kissing Dean -- and proving that he was a quick study. Dean reluctantly pulled away just before he thought his arms would start shaking from holding him up.

"Oh," Cas said, and Dean grinned at him.

Dief grumbled.

"We have a room," Cas replied, not looking away from Dean.

He laughed. "We could go to mine instead."

"A good idea." Castiel smiled, and his fingers brushed Dean's forehead.


End file.
